


Vivat Rex

by VivatDraco



Category: Discworld - Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-03-17
Updated: 2009-09-24
Packaged: 2017-10-07 19:38:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivatDraco/pseuds/VivatDraco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vetinari has gone and let himself die. Quite naturally too, which is what *really* annoys the commander. And that's just the start of the problems. Now the city needs a new leader, and there's no guarantee it'll go to the best man for the job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_A tailoring nightmare – The disappointments of progeny – A lack of trousers - When you've gotta go_

_   
_

Any student of history will be able to tell you of the fabled trousers of time.

The trousers of time are not so much trousers as… well, gloves might be a closer analogy, but even they do not have anything like enough appendages. No garment belonging to any normal being would. They may have begun life as a perfectly normal member of the wardrobe, but with each mad bifurcation, and multiplication**(a)**, they resemble less and less a pair of trousers and more one of those spidery tendril filled images of the nervous system, if it was the combined nervous systems of an entire universe. Any claim they may have had to trouserdom has long since been left behind. Time is, in fact, a tailoring nightmare. No-one could ever keep up with the alterations and there just isn't enough cotton in the universe.

But the point is that choices change things, from the simplest morning decision between toast and oatmeal through to deliberations on whether or not ones plans for the day should include genocide. Every single jiggling atom sparks off a cascade of new directions for existence to flow down.

The thing that choices mostly change is the future. And there are infinite futures belonging to infinite universes, where anything, _everything_, can and will happen.

This is one of those futures. It cannot be labelled The Future, unless one can pinpoint which of the constantly changing nows spawned it. And this is a difficult distinction. There are a million others like it: similar on the surface but different in tiny details, because of the smallest choices that were made. Some of the differences are bigger.

Much bigger.

 

* * *

**_(a) _**_Because choice is rarely as simple as one or the other. That would be far too easy and, most importantly, boring. The gods have to have _something_ to watch on wet sunday afternoons._

* * *

 

At the age of eighteen, Alexander Ironfoundersson was nearly as tall as his father and every bit as handsome, charming and charismatic. Like his father, he also spent a lot of time in watch houses.  
Generally in the cells, snoring. He had bedding and a mug of his own at most stations.

It was in this condition that his father found him that morning.

Carrot drank his coffee, and flicked through a copy of the night's incident reports. After a minute's reading he sighed and headed out of the main office and down to the cells. He bid a good morning to Igor and carried on down to the cell at the end of the row.

It was not locked, and the door hung ajar. He stood in the doorway and knocked on a bar, extracting a resounding _cloooiing_.

The youth within removed the blanket from over his head and peered blearily out.

"You are very lucky that I got in before your mother did," said Carrot.

"Morning, Dad," said Alexander, through a huge yawn. "It… is morning, right?" he added, uncertainly.

"Yes." Carrot's face was unreadable, even to his son. Had Angua found him, there would have been Words. Shouted Words, because Alex infuriated his mother in ways no other could and was discovering new ways every day. His father, on the other hand, was hard to work up and, in any case, had a very quiet way of being angry, or worse, disappointed. Even with his mostly werewolf talents it was hard to tell which was which. Carrot glanced at the clipboard of reports and then back at his son.

"Says here you were brought in on a 31(b(ii))."

"A what bye-eye?"

"Being Naughtily Drunk and Causing Affray. There's something here about Public Indecency too, which I don't think I want the details of. Anything sounding familiar?"

Alex shrugged. "It's not a good night out if there aren't bits you have to hear about from someone else."

There was the steady stare again, and then Carrot sighed. "Alex, I really wish you'd be a little more-"

Here it comes, Alex thought, it's the 'Why can't you be more like Nikolai' speech. Nikolai was a good example. Nikolai was mature and sensible. Nikolai was about as different from his twin as he could be. Nikolai was a_ bore_. He'd gone and got a respectable job with the Historian's guild as some sort of archivist. It sounded godawful. He spent all day indoors with dry old books and artefacts and no alcohol and no girls. None that were worth it anyway. He was going to start wearing tweed any day now. With _leather elbow patches_.

"Like Nikolai, yes, I know," said Alex.

"I was going to say 'more responsible', but your brother wouldn't be a bad role model. For that matter, neither would your sister, and she's 10."

Alex was sitting up on the plank bed now, rearranging the tangles in his unruly blonde hair. "Right, yes, I know. I'm an irresponsible disappointment of a son. Sorry I'm not as wonderful as you'd hoped. Everyone else likes me much better, you know. Is there any more coffee?"

Carrot ignored the question and detached a smaller slip of paper from the clipboard. He handed it to Alex, who stared at it blankly.

"Your fine," said Carrot, helpfully, and headed back up to the office.

"Course I am," said Alex to his retreating back. He stared at the slip again until words began to form out of the hangover haze. "Oh. _Fine_. Hey, wait! No one else makes me pay a fine!" he shouted after his father.

"Bugger," he added, more quietly, and wondered if anyone had thought to bring his trousers with them when they arrested him.

 

***

 

At the other end of Broadway, the ruler of the city was dying.

This was unusual in that Lord Vetinari was the first patrician in some hundred or more years to die of entirely natural causes. The man had survived accusations of murder and treachery, shootings and poisoning, not to mention the every day perils of simply living in Ankh-Morpork, and had eventually been taken off the Assassin's register out of sheer exasperation. The man had turned out to be too damned hard to kill.

But Death calls on everyone in the end.

The grey toned shade of Vetinari looked down at his body. In truth, it would be hard for an observer to tell which was the body and which the spirit; among the living Vetinari had always favoured a monotone wardrobe and had never been what you could call tanned.

"The timing really is most inconvenient," he said, apparently to himself.

Behind him, Death's hooded skull nodded.

YES. IT USUALLY IS. AN APPOINTMENT SYSTEM HAS BEEN SUGGESTED BUT I'M NOT SURE IT WOULD WORK.

"It's going to be quite a mess."

I THOUGHT IT WAS A RATHER NEAT DEATH, CONSIDERING YOUR LINE OF WORK. NO BLOOD, AT LEAST.

"Oh. Yes, I suppose so," said Vetinari, waving a spectral hand, as one acknowledging an insignificant detail. "I was speaking of the city. I had hoped to have a little more time to arrange matters."

YOU MADE NO PLANS? Death sounded surprised.

"Of course I did. So much harder to set them in motion from the grave, however."

IF YOU ARE ASKING FOR MORE TIME-

"Oh, no, not at all. You have your duty. I would not presume to ask you to shirk your responsibilities."

NO...? Now Death seemed uncertain.

"Indeed not. The city will look after itself. It always has done. I have merely… greased the wheels over the years, kept them turning without incident." The now ex-ruler paused in thought. "It would perhaps be amusing to see how things turn out…" mused Vetinari. "Vimes will undoubtedly be incensed. I believe he has always wanted to kill me himself."

THE ANGRY MAN WITH THE BADGE?

"You know him?"

HE HAS A HABIT OF FALLING OFF OF THINGS AND GETTING INTO FIGHTS HE SHOULD NOT BE ABLE TO WIN. HE ALSO RUNS FAR TOO MUCH FOR A MAN OF HIS AGE. I AM FRANKLY AMAZED HE'S NOT DEAD ALREADY.

"He has made something of a talent of it, hasn't he? And yet it seems he will be outliving me. Yes, he will be furious. Even more so when he discovers there is no-one to blame."

BUT YOU ARE NOT.

"I was trained at the Assassin's Guild. The first lesson they teach is that everyone dies sooner or later. Of course, they go on to say that it is an Assassin's job to make it sooner rather than later, as long as there is at least a four figure banker's note in return. To borrow the Guild of Night Soil Operatives and Associated Sanitary Workers rather more pithy motto: _Ut vos vado, vos vado_**(b)**."

INDEED.

"Now, I think we had better be moving along. I'm sure you have other people to see."

YES. Death paused. IF YOU WISH TO STAY...

"Oh no, no. I would not wish to impose. In any case, I don't think all that rattling chains and moaning business is quite my sort of thing. No, I believe it is best that we depart with all alacrity."

VERY WELL, YOUR LORDSHIP.

With that Death swung his scythe and severed the thin blue strand that anchored the patrician to his mortal remains.

As the office he had ruled from for so many years faded away, Havelock Vetinari stepped out into the black desert. After ruling Ankh-Morpork, death held no terrors.

 

Twenty minutes later, Drumknott entered with a stack of the mornings clacks reports.

It was quite usual for the patrician to remain bent over his work while the clerks came and went, without so much as a glance up. This was, however, usually accompanied by the scritch-scratch of a busy pen on paper. The room was silent, and his lordship's stillness was definitely _not_ usual.

The head clerk did not allow himself to become flustered. He calmly felt the lack of heat from his lordship's body, then searched for a pulse, which he did not find. Then he did not shout and he did not panic. He stood still for a moment in silent thought.

Thoughts collected and composed, Drumknott left the office.

"Something the matter, sir," asked a junior clerk, seeing his face. "You look a little pale."

"Do I? Really. Goodness. Please send a clacks to the Lady Sybil and ask for a doctor. Commander Vimes too," said Drumknott. "I believe Lord Vetinari is dead."

* * *

** _(b)_ ** _ "When you gotta go, you gotta go."_


	2. Chapter 2

_The eruption of Mount. Vimes – The art of delegation – Brotherly Love – The rarity of sibling loans – Stubborn buggers - Suspicious behaviour_

_   
_

"What's going on Mr. Drumknott?" demanded Commander Vimes, once he'd stopped at the top of the stairs to get his breath back and preferably stop his heart from exploding within his chest. He was getting too old for these mad dashes. He'd gone from a standing start up in his office, stopping only to burble incoherently at Carrot and a few constables to follow him. "The clacks said Vetinari was _dead_!"

"Yes sir," said Drumknott, still maintaining his clerkly calm, though it was beginning to fray at the edges.

"Vetinari cannot be dead, man. He's not the dying type."

"I'm afraid all evidence points to the contrary, Commander."

Carrot placed a hand on Vimes's shoulder, pausing the imminent outburst for the moment. "Just tell us what happened please, Mr. Drumknott."

"I don't know, sir. I went in about 10 minutes ago with the morning clackses and he was just sitting at his desk. I realised he wasn't moving so I went and checked his pulse. I don't know how long he'd been dead. Certainly not more than an hour."

"I don't believe this." Vimes stared at nothing for a moment. "Anyone else been in there this morning?" he asked.

"A few of the other clerks. I'm quite sure I was the last to go in before he died. Doctor Lawn is in there now."

"You sent for a doctor before the watch?"

"It seemed the right thing to do in the circumstances."

Vimes grunted. At least it was Lawn, who could be trusted not to contaminate the crime scene. "Absolutely no-one else is to come in without permission from me or Captain Carrot, you understand? Carrot, you talk to the staff, see if anyone saw anything unusually suspicious. I'm going to take a look at the office."

"...Indicating an approximate time of death of twenty past eight this morning," dictated Doctor Lawn to a recording imp as Vimes entered the oblong office. "Ah, morning Sam." He pressed the 'stop' button on the box, eliciting a tiny "oof".

"Mossy," Vimes greeted the elderly doctor. "He _is_ dead then?"

"Beyond all doubt."

"You're sure?"

"I believe you have a fundamental misunderstanding of the phrase 'beyond all doubt'."

Vimes glowered. Damn damn bloody damn. He had really hoped this was a case of panicked exaggeration. "So what are we looking at here? No visible wounds, can't see any blood about, so either they were very tidy or they managed to get poison in somehow... I'll get my lads to-"

Lawn raised his hands. "Commander, I believe his lordship died of natural causes."

This took a minute to filter through Vimes's consciousness. As the knowledge lit up each neuron, his face became a little redder. Anyone who knew Vimes could recognise this as being like unto the rumblings and whisps of smoke from that nice mountain that indicate this was a really _dumb_ place to build a city.

"_Natural causes?!_" Mount Vimes erupted.

"Apparently so," said the doctor, snapping his bag closed as the tremors dissipated.

"No. Patricians in this city do not die of sodding _natural causes_. Assassination. It _has_ to be. It's the accepted method of political promotion! It cannot have been _natural causes_." Vimes practically choked on the offending words.

"It does happen occasionally. Oh, there's fairly typical evidence of mal-nutrition and exhaustion, the man was not in particularly robust health. I gather he was never a big eater and frequently worked through the night, but these _are_ natural causes and nothing to be suspicious about."

"This is the patrician of Ankh-Morpork we're talking about, doctor. I am suspicious about everything concerning him."

Lawn sighed. "Very well. I shall have a post-mortem performed, to rule out all other possibilities. But honestly, Sam, I don't think I'll find anything more."

"Just do it, as soon as possible. If he _has_ been murdered, someone is going to pay."  
"I didn't realise you were so fond of his lordship."

"He and Sybil are… _were _friends. I hated the bastard. If anyone was going to kill him, I wanted it to be me. Letting himself die of natural causes is bloody inconsiderate of the man."

"Shocking behaviour, indeed. Well, I don't believe there's anything more I can do here. I'll need the body moved to the hospital to perform the post-mortem."

"Can't you do it here? Clear out an office or something and get your wossnames, tools and that sent over? I'd rather not have people carting the patrician's barely cold body around the city, if it's all the same to you. I want my forensic team to have a look at him too."

Lawn frowned. "I suppose it's do-able. I'll need a clean room and a big table to start with."

"Right. I'll er… I'll get Carrot to sort that out." Because, thought Vimes, 'we'd like a room to cut up your boss in' would sound so much better coming from Carrot. Actually, there was probably nothing that could make that particular request sound any better, but Carrot would certainly be more diplomatic about it than he, Vimes, ever could.

 

***

 

Having located his trousers**(a)**, Alexander set off to the Historian's guild. He tried to avoid the place as much as he could. He hated the smell of old books and dead civilisations, amplified as it was by his lupine senses into an all-pervading mustiness that took him days to get out of his clothes no matter which of the smellier areas of the city he went through afterwards. Plus it usually contained Nikolai, which was not doing it any favours.

But if his father was serious about that fine, and he'd never known him to be anything _but _serious about police matters, he'd be needing some money and damned if he was going to waste any of the tiny amount he had. Nick would certainly oblige. He was the responsible brother after all.

Alex strolled into the guild and gave the young woman in the gatehouse one of his winning smiles**(b)** and a wave as he sauntered past. He headed straight for the cataloguing department. He was intimately familiar with his family's scents and Nick's shone out among all the others, quite recent. He smelt much like the guild itself: a dry papery smell, a sort of greyish blue fading to yellow at the edges; something slightly smoky, like the fireplaces that burned in most of the guild rooms**(c)**; deep toned warm browns and oranges and a surprisingly shrill cold flickering blue; ink; dust; leather; soap; food; and underlying all, the spiky bitter little tang that said 'Yennork'. It was never hard for Alex to find his brother.

"Gods, you smell like a pub around closing time."

Or for Nikolai to find his.

Looking at the two of them, they were nearly identical. Both blonde and blue eyed, tall and lean, both handsome with their mother's cheekbones and father's jaw. That was about where the similarities ended and both brothers were happy about that. Bad enough that they had to share the same face, sharing the same personality would be unbearable.

Alexander shrugged. "Still smell better than you," he said.

Commenting on each other's smell had always been the favoured mode of low-grade bickering between the two boys. This is not uncommon between siblings. The 'you smell-you smell worse' exchange is familiar to any parent and is usually a prelude to someone getting hit over the head with something that wasn't meant for use in armed combat**(d)**. Alexander and Nikolai took it to another level with in depth forensic examination of the smell, with reference to pitch and tone, texture and shade and comparisons to the most malodorous substances they cared to name. When they were younger they could make the argument last a good half hour before parental intervention ceased hostilities. Now, of course, they were adults and didn't do that sort of thing.

Nikolai placed a catalogue and a couple of small packing crates on the workbench his brother was lounging against. Their descent sent up small puffs of dust.

Alex wrinkled his nose. "Don't know how you can smell anything over all this must. It's disgusting," he said.

"Leave then." Nick began to unwrap the contents of the crates. "Or was there something you wanted?"

"Can't a man just visit his dear brother? Those worth anything?" Alex asked of the artefacts being so carefully divested.

"They're priceless. From a dig one of the senior staff is doing out on the Djel Delta. They're uncovering some fascinating-" Nick stopped mid-sentance and groaned. "You want some money, don't you." It was not a question. It was a statement of utter leaden certainty. "I suppose you spent everything you had on beer last night. You smell like you bought the whole bar."

"Never have to. Everyone's happy to buy a drink for the captain's boys."

"Only because they live in the futile hope that you'll insist on paying for it like he does."

"They keep on doing it anyway."

"And _that_ is because the average Ankh-Morpork citizen learns about as fast as bread. How much do you need?"

"Thirty dollars."

"_Thirty dollars_? That's more than a month's pay, Alex. What in the world do you need it for?"

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"A resounding 'no'. Ask Mum if you're so desperate."

Alex did not meet his brother's eyes and endeavoured to speak without moving his mouth. "."

"Ah. Not likely to sub you for a while then."

"The chances are slim, yes."

"You could go ask her now before she has a chance to talk to Dad. She's at home, watching Ana before she goes to school."

Alex brightened up. "Oh, well at least she won't tear my throat out if the runt's there." The forecast dimmed again. "But she won't give it to me. She'll smell the cells on me and you know the way she can always tell what's going on with Dad. It's creepy, and I say this as a fellow fully-fledged creature of the night. She'll _know_ he fined me."

"Then you'll have to get a job like the rest of us. I don't know how you've gotten away with it for so long," said Nikolai, looking over the artefact. He picked up a make-things-bigger glass to inspect the details, then turned to a fresh page in the catalogue and began a new entry in a neat, precise hand.

Alex grinned, a little more toothily than seemed natural. "Never been formally charged. Mostly they just let me sleep it off and hand me a big cup of coffee in the morning."

"Mum's right. People let you get away with too much. Always have done."

"Can't help it if people like me. I've got a winning personality."

"Mum says that's the problem. It's not a good combination with lycanthropy. Speaking of which, don't forget you're supposed to stay in tonight."

Alex made a face. "What am I, ten? I don't need to cower at home in a basket every full moon. I only get a few days a month when I can change properly and I intend to make the most of them! She does."

Nikolai put down his work again. He wondered, sometimes, whether Alexander went out of his way to find ways to annoy Angua. He was the only bimorph among her children, albeit one who had difficulty changing at anything other than full moon, so they should have been able to find more in common. Despite this, they managed to disagree on almost everything. Alex was proud to be a werewolf and didn't see why he should hide it. How Angua felt about her species was never easily articulated, but pride didn't really come into it. Alexander worried her.

"At least make it home at some point tonight," he said, lacking anything more diplomatic to say in the circumstances.

"Mum and Dad don't make it home every night," said Alex, never one to let a chance to argue pass by once he was rolling.

Nikolai wanted to explain how that was different, that what their parents did was good and noble and that they gave all their time to other people. He knew that it was futile, and anyway, deep down he shared some of his brother's feelings. It would have been nice if the other people his parents gave their time to had been their own children a little more often. Instead of being drawn into another argument, he made a noncommittal grunt and changed the subject. "You ought to go home and change anyway. Ana'll be happy to see you," he said. "I've got work to do. Unlike some people," he added meaningfully.

** _   
_**

* * *

**_  
(a)_ ** _ Evidence locker number 4, which he managed to get to before Nobby had his daily rummage for anything worth nicking. Not that value mattered, he would generally take anything he found in there that didn't move on it's own. And a fair few things that did, though he usually regretted that._

** _(b)_ ** _ Which was very different from his underwear-wettingly terrifying smile. He'd got that from his mother. It was important not to use the wrong one._

** _(c)_ ** _ All heavily meshed and guarded. In the days of the Ankh-Morpork Guild of Fire Fighters, the Historian's Guild had been one of their favourite targets. Not a day went by that there was not someone hanging around making comments along the lines of "Pheweee, wouldja look at all this? Fousand's of years of history all writ down in here. The work of a few lifetimes, I'd wager. Wouldn't it be tragic, just tragic, if all this lot were to, say, for the sake of argument, just off the top of me head like, go up in a great blazing pillar of fire?"_

** _(d)_ ** _ Most often a model farm animal or the hammer from a wooden tool set bestowed by some well meaning, but ultimately short sighted, relative.   
_

* * *

_  
_

Vimes stood alone in the Oblong Office. Vetinari was so much a part of the room that it felt like a wall was missing without him. Other patrician's had used the office, but these days it was quintessentially Vetinari's. It was tidy and ordered, with neatly arranged desktop and shelves of leather bound books. Even the in-tray was a picture of order; Vimes hadn't seen the bottom of his own in years. A game of Thud was left in progress on the board. Vimes had taken a look in the filling cabinets, but if there was an organisation system there it was one far beyond his understanding**(a)**. Vimes stalked around the room as if looking for something.

"All right. You're still here aren't you? Stubborn bastard like you wouldn't just _go_. After everything you've put into this city, I reckon its future is pretty momentous unfinished business," he said, speaking to empty air. He glared around the room. "Come on! Rustle some paper, slam a door, creak the floorboards! Make that daft 'woooo' noise ghosts are meant to do. Haunt!"

"Er. Who are you talking to, sir?" asked Carrot, watching his commander with a worried expression from the doorway.

"Vetinari!"

"He's dead, sir," said Carrot, speaking slowly and carefully.

"Yes! Bastard! But he's still here, you can bet on it. Stubborn bugger like him, nothing could stop him sticking around. He'll be back, mark my words. Ghost. Or Zombie. Maybe there was something to that vampire rumour. The man had his teeth and nails into the whole city, he wouldn't just die and leave it behind for someone else to take over without his say so. Some people are just too bloody minded to let go!"

"The type certainly sounds familiar," said Carrot, with the ineffable expression he always wore when making that sort of comment.

Vimes gave him a sharp look. "You find anything then?"

Carrot shook his head. "No one unknown to the staff was seen and several of the clerks confirmed what Mr. Drumknott told us. He was definitely the last person to see his lordship alive."

"Well maybe he did it then. Wouldn't be the first time his secretary tried to do him in. You remember Wonse?"

"Of course, sir. But Drumknott's worked here for twenty years or more now. I'm sure he's completely loyal. He wouldn't even believe it back when everyone said Vetinari had tried to kill him!"

"Mm. You're probably right there."

"I could send one of the lads to fetch Angua or Sally, sir," said Carrot. "They'd know if anyone else had been in here."

"Mm. Get Angua, let's keep this as quiet as possible for the moment. I don't like the way Sally looks like she's going to explode when she has to keep a secret. Get Cheery and Igor up here too," said Vimes. Carrot nodded, tore a page from his notebook and wrote two short messages. "Funny though," opined Vimes. "If it _is_ murder, they haven't made much effort to hide it. No scent bomb, even petty thieves seem to be using them these days… They'd have to know we'd have Angua sniff around."

"Then maybe Doctor Lawn is right. Absolutely everyone leaves a trail, sir. So if Angua doesn't find anything and neither does Doctor Lawn… I really think we'll have to accept this was a natural death, sir."

"I'll believe that when I see proof," said Vimes.

"Yes, sir. I suppose we can't be too careful in the circumstances."

Vimes grunted his assent. He pulled open a desk drawer and began going through the contents.

"I think those are private papers, sir," said Carrot.

"The man is _dead_, Carrot. I'm looking for anything that might shed some light on why." He shuffled through a sheaf of paper. With a 'don't say a word unless you want to be bumped down to lance-constable' look at Carrot, he extracted a pair of gold rimmed spectacles from his pocket. He put them on and squinted as the page stopped being full of incomprehensible black squiggles.

Carrot squirmed. "Even so, sir, it's not… not really right."

"Lots of things aren't really right, Carrot. Why fight the tide? Go and get that message sent off."

"Right away, sir."

Through the wall, Vimes heard Carrot call for one of the young constables they'd brought along. He couldn't name them. Granted, he had pointed fairly blindly at a handful of them as he dashed past, but there were so many coppers now that he probably couldn't have put names to faces even if you gave him his glasses, an unobstructed view and five minutes to think about it. He didn't like that. Gone were the days when he knew every man**(b)** well enough to _feel_ what he was thinking. Of course, back in those days they'd all been thinking pretty much the same thing**(c)** so it hadn't been hard. The watch wasn't the same thing he'd joined all those decades ago. Yes, they actually operated as an efficient branch of government now, but he missed it all the same, just like those blustery night watches with the rain trickling down his neck. He really had to get out patrolling again.

"Heard young Alex was in last night," said Vimes conversationally as Carrot re-entered the office. "Again."

"Er, yes."

"Public indecency was mentioned."

"I didn't ask for the details. The, er, lack of trousers was quite enough."

Vimes choked back a snort of laughter. He had occasionally wondered if Alex was Carrot with all the stops pulled out, shorn of all the accustomed self-possession and neatness. But then he'd turn up in the cells without his trousers and there was no way you could make the two personalities meet.

"It's not funny, sir."

"Yes it is, Carrot. It's sodding hilarious. All anyone ever worried about was how wolfy your kids would be, only it turns out it's his human side that's the problem. Can't beat the joys of fatherhood, can you?"

* * *

** _(a)_ ** _ Vimes generally filed things under I (important), U (unimportant) or B (bonkers)._

** _(b)_ ** _ And woman, troll, dwarf, golem, werewolf, vampire, gnome, gargoyle, zombie and so on. It just took too long to list them all now. As far as he was concerned they were all solid copper.  
_

** _(c)_ ** _ "Bugger all this for a lark" or "Gods I hope I get out of this alive."  
_

* * *

The art of getting into houses un-noticed is a skill common to thieves, Assassins, common killers and creatures of the night.

It's rather harder if the house in question contains another such creature. Even more so if she happens to be your mother. This was why Angua was stood in the doorway wearing an expression of displeasure before Alex had managed to get his foot over the windowsill.

"Er," he said, demonstrating great eloquence.

"I suppose you've got some wonderful explanation for why you've stopped using doors?" she said. She wrinkled her nose. "And smell like you've been bathing in Bearhuggers."

"Could you not comment on my smell, Mother? I've already had that from Nick."

"Possibly time to take the hint then. And will you be introducing the young lady some time?" asked Angua, sweetly. This smelt like a new girlfriend. Not that she'd met many of the others. Alex found it embarrassing to bring his girlfriends home. Perhaps it had something to do with the way Carrot always knew who their parents were and would ask after family members Alex didn't yet know they had.

Alex went poker faced. "Don't know what you're talking about. Nose must be on the blink, Mum, bit of flu maybe. I'm off to wash."

Angua sighed as her son pushed past her. Soon she heard running water. Behind her, another door clicked open.

"Was that Rex?"

That damned nickname. Angua hated it, and that only seemed to have made Alexander fonder of it. The nickname had been given to him by Sam Vimes Junior many years earlier. At the time he had been fifteen and totally cool as far as the younger boy was concerned. He was dashing, popular, had a shiny sword all of his own, a horse, wore stylish black and was attending the Assassin's guild school**(a)**. He had called Alex 'Rex' because he thought it was hilarious. Now that he was a mature young man he apologised to Angua nearly every time he saw her. But the damage had been done, and the name had stuck.

"Don't call him that, Ana," said Angua, half-heartedly. She knew she was fighting a loosing battle.

"Why was he coming in through the window?" asked Ana, Angua's youngest child. She was recently ten, strawberry blonde and very nearly human. Amongst the worries of how heavily the werewolf genes would show through in their children, no one had considered that the answer might be 'hardly at all'. It had been quite a shock. Angua wondered if her family's blood wasn't quite as pure as they liked to make out.

"Guilty conscience. Makes him think he can sneak past me."

Ana looked thoughtful for a moment. "He should have come through the front door. That wouldn't have been half as suspicious. Anyone coming in through a window _obviously_ has something to hide."

"Well, you give him that advice, though I expect he'll come through the window again next time anyway. But after you're ready for school."

When Alex emerged, towel around his shoulders, Angua sat in the main room doing paperwork. A lot of this seemed to involve correcting the spelling in reports. It was not her favourite part of being a senior watchman. She shared Vimes's feelings on the subject. They tended to pass particularly vexing paperwork back and forth between each other, hoping the other would do it until Carrot dealt with it because it was that or let it jump between the two desks forever more.

"Mum," started Alex, in the tones of one testing waters he is certain will freeze him. "Do you think I could borrow some money for a couple of weeks?"

"Going by your previous record at paying money back, probably not. How much did you need?"

"Uh. Thirty dollars. A trifling sum."

"That's trifling is it?" Angua stopped. Someone was knocking hurriedly on the door. "Hold that thought."

The knocker was a constable. "Message from the captain m'am," he said, handing over the message in question. "Think you're wanted up at the palace," he added.

"Thank you, Constable... Trembley, isn't it?" Angua unfolded the note.

Ana emerged from her bedroom again, with her schoolbag. She ambled over to her brother, eager to impart her advice.

"You should use the front door next time. Windows are suspicious, and coppers always find suspicious behaviour... um... suspicious," she said.

"Thanks for the advice," said Alex vaguely, watching his mother. "I'm sure you'll make a perfectly suspicious copper when you're older." Ana beamed with pride.

"Oh my gods," murmured Angua as she finished reading the note. "Alex, be responsible for half an hour of your life and see Ana to school. I have to go to the palace right now!" She screwed up the note, then hastily buckled on her armour. She was out of the door before Alex could protest.

"Looks like it's just you and me, Rex," said Ana, beside him.

"Yeah." Alex stared at the closed door for a moment, and then looked down at his little sister contemplatively. "Hey, you wouldn't happen to have thirty dollars would you?"

"How big do you think my money box is?"

Alex ignored her and retrieved the scrunched up note. He unfolded it. "I hope someone really important has died," he muttered, sour at having been left to look after his kid sister. He read the terse note in his father's writing, to say nothing of the uniquely recognisable spelling and punctuation. "Uh. I suppose that qualifies," he said, grudgingly.

"Is it a crime? Something really important's been stolen?" asked Ana.

"No. It's Vetinari. He's dead."

* * *

** _ (a)_ ** _ But not the black syllabus, which detracted a few cool points. Vimes had been adamant; if his son absolutely had to go to the Assassin's school, he was going to learn to fight properly, not by their stupid rules._


	3. Chapter 3

_Not on the schedule – Deeply suspicious nosy bastards - Tense tenses - Freedom of the press_

_   
_

  
Sam Vimes junior preferred to be called Samuel, though habit meant people tended to call him Sam anyway. He had an office in the palace, so no one was surprised to see him hurrying through the corridors with a pre-occupied expression. There was a strange atmosphere about the place that pricked at Samuel's consciousness. It filled him with a sense of _aagragaah_**(a)**.

He caught sight of two constables lurking in the antechamber of the Oblong Office. That could not be a good sign. The absence of Drumknott was another not-so-good sign. The clerk was never far away from his lordship. The sound of his father, apparently not arguing, which was unprecedented whilst in the patrician's presence, from within the office itself was a really _bad_ sign.

So it was with some trepidation that he approached the office and gently knocked on the half open door.

Carrot pulled it all the way open. "It's Samuel, sir. You didn't see Angua on your way up did you?"

"Er, no. I was-"

"Carrot, why don't you go and wait for her. Fill her in, I'm fed up of repeating myself, and bring her up. I'll stay up here," said Vimes. He closed the office door behind him and ushered Samuel back into the antechamber as Carrot departed. "Best no one else goes in there for the moment, lad."

"Look, has something happened? Only, Lord Vetinari is due in court in ten minutes. It's the last day of Ted "The Slasher" Clapper's trial, you remember?" Samuel was a lawyer. There was no way you could sugarcoat it. This had been the topic of some argument between the younger and elder Vimes's, until Samuel had patiently reminded his father that there were in fact lawyers on _both_ sides of the case. Everyone tended to ignore the prosecution lawyers because they were Government and therefore didn't get paid anything like as well as those working defence. Particularly those defending rich clients**(b)**. No one paid thousands of dollars to get someone put away: that was what governments were for. Samuel didn't mind. It wasn't that he needed the job; he was certainly the richest young man in the city. He did the job for the same reason his father did his. They did it because someone had to and they didn't trust anyone else to get it right.

Vimes cursed. Clapper was a really nasty piece of work. The trial had been dragged out weeks already, and now this. With Vetinari gone the damned lawyers**(d)** would have a field day. They'd drag up precedents and fiddly little laws and demand that the trial be re-started…

"I think," he said, "that the trial is off. For the moment."

"Father, we've been at this-"

"I know! Believe me, this isn't how I want it. The fact is," he paused, wondering how you could frame it. There just wasn't any other way to say it. "The fact is, Vetinari is dead."

"Are you…?" ventured Samuel, after the requisite shocked moment of silence. "No, you're not having me on, are you? Ye gods." He stared at nothing as he tried to process the new world view. It was tricky. Vetinari was a _part_ of the city, and he'd known the patrician his entire life. He couldn't imagine the city without him. "Was it an Assassination?"

"No note. If it was, it was a quiet one and no one wants to claim responsibility just yet. Dr. Lawn is doing a post-mortem and Angua should be up soon to have a sniff around. We'll know for sure soon enough. And then some bugger is going to _pay_."

"Even if it wasn't murder?"

"If that's the case then it'll probably be the whole city paying. I'm not sure if anyone remembers how to run a city without Vetinari." Vimes had to admit that, like him or hate him, the man had certainly known how to make things work. "But I suppose that'll be true no matter what."

"It's going to be bad, isn't it?" said Samuel.

"Oh, yes."

"I assume the city council hasn't been informed yet?"

"Oh gods, don't remind me. You know, I had a nice, easy day planned for today. Catch up on the paperwork. Have lunch with your mother. Go and nose around the training school. See how work's going on the new forensics lab. It was going to be as close to relaxing as it gets in this job. And now… now it's full of, of… Yeeuck. Councils and meetings and press releases and the city falling down around our ankles."

"I'm sure it won't be as bad as all that," said Samuel, but he didn't sound convinced.

"No, " said Vimes glumly. "It'll probably be worse."

  


* * *

** _(a) _ ** _Samuel had enjoyed a rather eclectic education in languages. He was quite fond of Troll; you didn't even really need to study it to grasp the meaning behind a lot of words. They had a way of echoing throughout your bones that transcended meaning. _

** _(b)_ ** _ Which was all of them. Being poor was completely indefensible. They had to make do with throwing themselves on the mercy of the court**(c)**._

** _(c)_ ** _ Which worked surprisingly often for a city that was so famously merciless. Vetinari had a strange sense of humour._

** _(d)_ ** _ Vimes did not think of Samuel as a lawyer but as a sort of Honorary Copper._

* * *

  
Angua had turned up, as had the forensics team**(a)**. Things had been explained, there had been shock, disbelief and now they were getting down to the job of being deeply suspicious nosy bastards.

"I need to know who's been in here in the last, oh… week or so," said Vimes.

Angua stared at the ceiling for a few moments. She had tried to explain, really she had. But humans just could not understand the world of smell as she saw it. Carrot tried, but even he didn't grasp just how _complex_ it was. "Do you have _any_ idea how many people are in and out of this office every day?" she asked, speaking slowly.

"Er. Dunno. How many?"

"I don't know! But it's a lot, I can tell you that," said Angua. "Dozens. On the street older scents dissipate, so the newer ones are more defined, but indoors they hang around a lot longer so it's much harder to pick a single one out. There are clerks going back and forth, some council meetings are held up here and he has his private interviews here too. There have probably been hundreds of people through this room by the end of the week and a lot of them won't be back so picking out one person that doesn't quite fit is… it's bloody impossible, sir."

She was met with silence. Carrot broke it, eventually.

"Had," he said.

"What?"

"Had. He _had_ his private interviews here."

Angua stared at him. "Right. Fine, yes. Tenses aside, this is not something I can do for you. There's no blood, no scent of poison, none of the strong emotions that I'd expect to find at a murder scene, even if it was a professional one. The most recent scents from this morning back up what Drumknott told you. Only clerks and his lordship until he was found and Doctor Lawn was brought in. There isn't much else I can tell you, sir. They're all very boring, very _normal_ scents."

"Damn," said Vimes. "Dead end then. What about you Cheery? Think you can find anything?"

"Hard to say, sir," said Cheery. "There's nothing obvious, but I wouldn't expect there to be. We'll go over the room and let you know what we find, sir."

"Good. I want to know _everything_ you find."

"Er. Everything, sir?"

"Everything suspicious."

Cheery looked around the office. She knew Vimes's opinion of the late patrician. 'Everything suspicious' by his standards was still probably everything. "I'll send for some big boxes, shall I?" she said, gloomily. She was going to be there a long time.

"What are we going to tell everyone, sir?" asked Angua, walking down the corridor once Cheery and Igor had begun their search.

"Oh gods. I don't know," said Vimes.

"I think it is our responsibility, sir," said Carrot. "The city council needs to be told. And a new patrician has to be elected."

"The man's barely cold yet, Carrot!"

"Yes, sir, I know. But the process must be started. The city needs leadership."

"And who will it be? Eh? Once the guild leaders and nobs would have fought it out like animals or there'd be a clear succession by whoever's standing over the body. Simple. Bloody awful, but simple. But everything's nice and cosy now. Most of the guild leaders are old men cause Vetinari made their positions stable, and they like where they are. He's made the job too much like hard work for the nobs. Only complete madmen want the job!"

"Yes, sir. I know it won't be easy to find someone for the job, but it is up to the council to find them."

"Rather them than me," said Vimes, which wasn't entirely true. Gods alone knew who they'd dredge up. "All right. Get messages out to the councillors, guild leaders, wizards and such that there'll be a meeting here at the palace. Make sure they know it's important. Most of 'em'll probably guess what's going on. Call it eleven, that'll give us time to sort some things out. Hopefully have something more to say than 'Sorry everyone, but he's popped it' by then."

"I think a little more delicacy would be advisable in the circumstances, sir," said Carrot, with a disapproving look.

"Yes, Carrot, you're probably right. I'm so glad you're here to point these things out."

Samuel was still lurking. "I can probably get the meeting organised for you. With the court session off I don't have much else to do."

"Good. Oh, Doctor Lawn should be somewhere about doing a post-mortem. Send him over to the yard when he's done, I want to know what he finds."

Samuel paled slightly. "He's… cutting up…? Here?"

"Yes. Well, we couldn't have him carting the patrician's body around the city!"

"But… that's… it's…" Samuel's mouth flapped open and closed soundlessly. He was remarkably squeamish for an Assassin's guild boy who'd spent most of his life around dragons that frequently spread their innards across their pens.

"Yes. Well. Just make sure you knock loudly before you enter a room."

  


* * *

** _(a)_ ** _ Cheery and Igor. Granted, the forensics department was now technically a lot larger, but until the new one was finished there was still only room for two in the lab._

* * *

  


"What does Alex want thirty dollars for?" asked Angua as they left Samuel behind.

"You didn't give it to him did you?" said Carrot.

"Yes Carrot, I'm a complete fool with no recollection of past unpaid debts so I gave it to him with no questions at all."

"I wouldn't say you were- Oh, that was sarcasm, wasn't it?"

"You're getting better. Under five seconds that time, I think that may be a personal best."

"Thank you," said Carrot, a shade coolly. "I fined Alex. He was in the cells when I signed in this morning."

"Aah. I thought I detected a note of eau de cell under the booze and everything else. He'll have to get a job like everyone else then."

"Yes."

There was something incredibly strange about being witness to a domestic discussion between Carrot and Angua. They had always been so… private. They still were, when it came to their romantic relationship. Public displays of affection were something that happened to other people and there was a firm boundary between their personal lives and their duty. But with the children to look after, or deal with as was often the case, their lives outside of the watch couldn't be ignored. It was still strange. In the past, Vimes wasn't even sure they'd _had_ lives outside of the watch. At least he'd never noticed Angua talking about curtains or carpets, which was some comfort.

"Oh, bloody hells," said Vimes as they descended the stairs and saw, ready to pounce, Sacharissa Cripslock and Otto Chriek. "How the hells do they do it?" he asked.

"This is Ankh-Morpork, sir. Gossip practically spreads straight from head to head, no-one needs to say a word," said Angua.

"Maybe we could just sneak back upstairs," muttered Vimes, but he was too late. Sacharissa had noticed them and was bearing down on the foot of the stairs.

"Commander Vimes!" she called up. "Could you spare us a moment? Our readers are interested to know what's happening."

Vimes finished his descent, dragged down by the lead slowly filling his stomach. He managed a strained smile, or something that might have started out life as a smile but had come out as more of a grimace. "What are you doing here, Miss Cripslock?" he asked. "Are you sure there's anything happening _for_ me to explain?"

"Well, when the commander of the watch is seen to sprint all the way to the palace, closely followed by the captain and assorted underlings, there's generally something news-worthy going on. We've taken to following as a matter of course. You put on an impressive turn of speed for a man of your age, I'm told."

"Really," said Vimes, stone-faced as his nickname. "I shall have to go for runs around the city more often if it'll keep you lot busy." _Oh Gods, please no_, cried his knees in desperate protest.

"We shall look forward to the exercise, sir," said Sacharissa sweetly. "The staff here seem to be walking around in a sort of daze and everyone's being very quiet, which is very unusual. Something very big is happening, and it is the Times's duty to make sure the public are kept fully informed. As watchmen you do share our duty to the public and to the truth."

When Vimes spoke, it was in his strained, flat, talking-to-the-press voice that suggested he was barely restraining himself from hitting someone. "Miss Cripslock, a meeting of all leading figures in the city will be held at eleven o'clock in the Rat's Chamber. In the interests of keeping the public informed, you and your iconographer may attend."

"But that's not for another hour! We could make the lunchtime edition if you'd allow an interview right now. You must realise that rumour will be starting the rounds already, sir, and panic always follows pretty hot on its heels. I'm sure you want to prevent any civil unrest."

"Eleven o'clock, Miss Cripslock. Until then, that's your lot."

As Vimes and the other watchmen crossed the hall, Sacharissa called out to them again. "Is it something to do with Lord Vetinari? It is, isn't it? Leading figures, that'd be guild officials, councillors, wizards, community leaders, lawyers, the whole boiling. That's going to be a hell of a meeting, sir. You wouldn't be calling them all if it wasn't something very important."

"Good-_bye_, Miss Cripslock," said Vimes firmly.

When they'd left, Sacharissa frowned. "Like getting blood out of a stone sometimes, isn't it?" she said. "Oh, sorry Otto."

"Ach, it iz no problem. I am firmly on top of zer whole b-vord business. Vhy, I can say it quite clearly vizout zer shuddering und pantink and zo on zese days," said the vampire. "Blood, blood, blood, see? Now, if you ver to show me zer new Delta DIS5000x iconograph viz zer tventy times zoom lense zat vould be a different matter." The vampire's eyes were glazing over with lust at the mere thought.

"Well done. Let's go and get set up in the Rat's chamber, shall we? I want you in a good spot for taking iconographs and I want to be right at the front where Vimes can't ignore me."

"You must admit, Miss Cripslock did have a point, sir," said Carrot, once out of her earshot. "Rumour does get out rather quickly in this city, and the death of the patrician is sure to cause some concern."

Vimes was pretty sure he didn't have to admit anything about the newspapery people. He grunted instead, which Carrot could take however he liked. "We'll have to talk to the lads. Make sure they can keep a lid on things if they do go wahoonie shaped."

"Yes, sir. Sir, you should probably go and tell Lady Sybil. They were quite close friends, weren't they?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I suppose so. But there's so much to do! And what do I say? Announcing it to the bastards on the council is one things but…"

"Better that she hears it from you now than from the paper in a few hours, sir. Angua and I can organise things at the yard."


	4. Chapter 4

_A high class mob - End of an era – Obituaries to go – Equal oppression – A plotting subplot_

_   
_

The Rats Chamber was packed from wall to wall. Rumour had spread like… well, like rumour, which spreads far faster than any wildfire could even in thatch dominated Ankh-Morpork. Something big was happening, and Ankh-Morpork hated to miss anything. The presence of so many bodies made the décor's itchy influence all the worse. Alex had slipped in, kid-sister safely deposited at school, and was now lurking at the back of the room, by the open door, and even there he was feeling in heavy need of a B.A.T.H., something he didn't even like to think of at this time of the month.

He surveyed the people surrounding him. Around the long table, with its unexplained axe centrepiece, sat a number of city councillors who had managed to fight their way in. Sitting quite determinedly at one end, with her notebook out, pencil poised and ears no doubt recording every word they heard, was Sacharissa Cripslock. Alex had watched as a councillor had tried to persuade her out of her seat earlier, but the reporter was not about to be moved by any power on the Disc**(a)**. He was now standing some distance away, occasionally glancing enviously tablewards while his feet were trodden on by others jostling for space. Ankh-Morpork was a mob even at the upper levels of society. They just waved ledgers and chequebooks instead of the more traditional torches and pitchforks. There were other faces he recognised. All the guild leaders were present; old Lord Downey and Mrs Palm, both veterans of the council crush; the pallid figure of the latest in the line of Doctor Whitefaces; the tax-man/banker/postman Moist von Lipwig and the cloud of cigarette smoke that indicated he was accompanied by his wife, the secretary of the Golem trust; this year's master of the guild of merchants, a successful boot maker who seemed ill at ease in this company; and dozens of others he knew of vaguely.

There was some action around the door at the other end of the large room. Alex shrank back at the sight of his parents accompanying Commander Vimes; he was keen to stay out of their way for the rest of the day. Lady Sybil was there too, blowing a nose that was pinker than usual. Clearly she'd already had the announcement. The new arrivals made their way to the front of the room as their presence was noticed and the noise level in the chamber slowly dimmed until, as is always the case, there was just the one voice loudly extolling its humble opinion**(b)**, which hadn't quite caught up yet.

"Thank you all for coming at such short notice," said Vimes, once quiet had been achieved. "I'm sure many of you have heard some sort of rumour or have an inkling of what this is all about, so I'm not going to waste your time, and mine, with useless preamble. Lord Vetinari has died."

The simple pronouncement was met with a solid silence as a hundred people refused to believe their ears. Vimes flipped open his notebook, more for something to look at other than the sea of expectant faces than for consultation, and as he continued he could feel the words spreading out across the silence, seeping in slowly. "His lordship was discovered at his desk this morning by Rufus Drumknott, chief clerk here at the palace and his lordship's secretary. Doctor Lawn was summoned and confirmed that his lordship was indeed dead. We are awaiting his full post-mortem report, which we expect to have by the end of the day. At this time we are not ruling out the possibility of foul play." This last was delivered with a meaningful look directed at the chief Assassin.

"Er. You're sure about this?" asked Lord Downey, uncomfortably caught in the spotlight.

"Oh no, I suppose he could just be having a kip, you know how it as at the end of a busy week," replied Vimes, expression immobile. "Of course we're bloody sure, Downey. I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't absolutely have to."

"Well, I can assure you that there is, er, that is there _was_ no contract on his lordship. Indeed we have not been accepting contracts on Vetinari for many years. He was removed from the register more than twenty years ago. We don't do that for just anyone."

"And of course none of your lads would do it off the record if enough cash was flashed in their direction."

"Please, commander! We are Assassins, not hired killers**(c)**."

"Is there evidence to suggest an Assassination?" asked Sacharissa.

"The investigation is ongoing."

"Forgive me, commander, but that's not really an answer."

Vimes frowned at the persistence of journalists. "We are still conducting an in depth examination of the patrician's office and surrounding offices which has turned up nothing obvious. Of course any assassin," he pointedly dropped the capitalisation, "of sufficient skill to kill Vetinari wouldn't have left obvious clues."

"Has the cause of death been ascertained?" continued the reporter.

"As I said, we're waiting on Doctor Lawn's full report. Until he's provided that we're not prepared to say anything more definite. The only thing we _can_ be definite about is the fact that he's dead."

Someone in the crowd raised a hesitant hand.

"Yes, what?"

"Erm, I did hear a rum-"

Vimes thought he recognised the expression. He sighed. "And he's not noticeably vampiric or zombified either."

"Oh."

Silence reigned once more while everyone sought for something to say. Sacharissa broke it this time.

"This means, of course, that a new patrician will need to be appointed. Who will it be?" she posed the question to the room at large. There was a general coughing and looking away and not meeting anyone's eyes in reply.

"It's rather too soon to say, Miss Cripslock," said Vimes. "But it'll be up to the council and I'm sure they'll be meeting very soon to discuss that very matter. It's certainly not for me to speculate as to their eventual decision."

"You won't be going for the job yourself then, Commander?" Sacharissa smiled the smile she always smiled when she knew she was asking a cheeky question that would get anyone who wasn't reporting every word into a lot of trouble.

"Ha ha. No, Miss Cripslock. You could not get me to take this job if you paid me my weight in gold a week."

"But who else would it be, sir?"

 

 

"What are you lurking back here for?" asked Samuel, beside Alex ten minutes later, as the meeting began to break up.

"I'm not lurking."

"Looks like it to me. I didn't think you'd be interested in all this. Politics never seemed to be your thing," said Samuel.

"If it'd make me stuffy like you and Nick, then I thank the gods for that." Alex rubbed his chin**(d)** thoughtfully. "On the other hand, if you can get the top job I'd wager the politics might be worth it. Mum does keep telling me I need a job." Alex grinned.

Samuel snorted a laugh. "I'm sure if you make the suggestion to the council they'll give it all the consideration it deserves."

"Hah! Yes, I bet they would," said Alex as Samuel walked away. But the grin was gone by the time his back was turned.

 

**   
**

* * *

**  
_(a)_** _ And probably not many off of it either. Even the most determined of gods would find itself outmatched against Miss Cripslock on the trail of a story._

_**(b) **Which is of course never that humble._

_**(c)** From the Morporkian dictionary: "**Assassin** n. A gentleman or lady of breeding and education who may be able to discreetly dispose of obstacles to ones ambitions in exchange for a modest fee. Deeply offended by confusion with **killer**_ _n._ _or** thug **n."_

_**(d)** On which he had been trying to cultivate some roguish scruff for some time. For someone who found himself, even if it was a self of a substantially different shape, covered in hair for a few nights a month, growing an acceptable beard was proving ridiculously difficult. What did come through tended to be embarrassingly fluffy and, worse, ginger._

* * *

 

Special Edition

  


  


# END OF AN ERA

  


  


**SUDDEN DEATH OF PATRICIAN ROCKS CITY**

WATCH INVESTIGATING POSSIBILITY OF ASSASSINATION

Who will rule Ankh-Morpork?

Citizens of Ankh-Morpork were shocked today to learn of the sudden death of Lord Havelock Vetinari (_76_), Patrician and ruler of the city. The Patrician is believed to have died at around 8:20 this morning and was discovered at his desk by head clerk Rufus Drumknott (damnit, does _no-one_ manage to get his age?!). On discovering the body, clerk Drumknott summoned Doctor James Lawn of the Lady Sybil Free Hospital and Commander Vimes of the Watch. As yet, available information is unclear as to the cause of death. The Watch is treating the death as highly suspicious and, pending a full post-mortem report, have not ruled out the possibility of Assassination.

Lord Havelock Vetinari first came to power some 40 years ago upon succeeding Psychoneurotic Lord Snapcase as patrician, making him the longest reigning patrician since the instigation of the system over 300 years ago after the execution of the last King of Ankh. Perhaps to thank for this fact is Vetinari's idiosyncratic approach to government, which was entirely unique and shaped Ankh-Morpork into the city it is today. One of Vetinari's earliest moves was the legalisation of the ancient Thieves Guild and allowing the formation of the Guild of Seamstresses. Under his rule, Ankh-Morpork has seen unprecedented economic growth, unimaginable progress in technology and has become the city everyone wants to live in.

The man himself was exceedingly private, with very little known of his early life. He was educated at the Assassin's Guild, where he specialised in poisons and graduated with full honours. Between this and his appointment as Patrician, he is known to have journeyed to Uberwald on what is known as "The Grand Sneer", where rumour has it he had a _liason_ with founding member of the Uberwald Temperance League, Lady Margolotta von Uberwald. In his free time Lord Vetinari is known to have enjoyed reading music, thud and throwing mimes in the scorpion pit, which is possibly his greatest service to the city.

Lord Vetinari brought an era of incredible stability to a usually turbulent and chaotic city. His greatest strength as a politician was in making himself indispensable to the running of the city. While this worked well to keep him in office, this makes finding a replacement a truly difficult task. The city council will be meeting later today to discuss this matter.

_See page 3 for commentary and opinion and page 5 for full obituary._

The suddenness of Lord Vetinari's departure means that the possibilities for the next patrician are very much open. Here at the Times we have collected a list of…

 

#### The Contenders

MOIST VON LIPWIG (_49_)

Hotly tipped as a likely successor amid rumours that Vetinari has been moulding him for the job for many years. Previous government jobs include Postmaster General, Master of the Royal Mint and Chief Taxgatherer, all of which he has turned into highly successful ventures. But is he up to taking the reins of leadership? Critics have labelled Lipwig as "all flash and no substance" and have attributed his successes to his seemingly limitless ability to provide entertainment. Said critics feel that such a man in power would turn our city politics into a circus. However, in these times of political apathy among the public, perhaps what is needed is a showman to re-engage public interest in the future of their city. Past experience as a confidence trickster may well prove beneficial in political negotiations.

LORD SAMUEL VIMES (_74_)

As the city's richest citizen, Duke of Ankh and commander of the watch His Grace wields significant power already. Not a popular figure, but known for his honesty and directness of approach to all matters. Vimes has been entrusted with diplomatic missions in he past, where his forthright attitude has served him well. But at 74 he is not much younger than his late lordship. How much longer would he last, particularly with the amount of ill-advised rushing about he does? Vimes can often be seen running around the city (We at the Times are Concerned for his health and would like him to slow down, if only so we can keep up) suggesting that he is a man of action, not of paperwork, of which the job of patrician is, we understand, quite full.

SAMUEL VIMES Jnr. (_24_)

Son of the above. Assassin's guild educated, with training as a lawyer and a genetic disposition towards extreme cynicism, the younger Vimes is well suited to a life in politics. With youth on his side, perhaps it is time to allow the next generation to take its turn at the helm.

CAPTAIN CARROT IRONFOUNDERSSON (_44_)

A well-known and popular public figure, Local Hero and another rumoured protégé of his late lordship. Also rumoured to have links to the long defunct monarchy of the city, though he has always declined any knowledge on the matter. However, indications suggest that he is, so far, content to remain in his role as watch captain.

REINHARD GERBER (_57_)

A relatively new face to Ankh-Morpork, but one with high ambitions, Gerber has made his name as a leader of the Campaign For Human Solidarity. The group is pushing for a return to the traditional values that made Ankh-Morpork great (The Times finds this deeply worrying) and the "purification" of making the city a truly human one once again. The movement has its origins among the human population of Uberwald and has gathered surprisingly large support and momentum in the city and it is clear that Gerber has designs on the patricianship. We at the Times, a proudly multi-cultural and multi-racial enterprise, hope that in these enlightened days this is recognised as the utter tripe that it is.

LORD RONALD RUST (_78_)

A long standing opponent to Vetinari's style of rule, Lord Rust may take this opportunity to relive the brief time he spent in power during the Morpork-Klatchian war of '97 while Lord Vetinari stepped down for the duration of the emergency. Lord Rust has a high level of support among the upper echelons of society, however much of the lower ranks consider him mad as a spoon. This is not, of course, a barrier to any potential bid for the patricianship. Once again, age counts against him when considering the establishment of a stable leadership.

ROSEMARY PALM (_A lady never tells_)

President of the guild of Seamstresses, Mrs. Palm has been a prominent figure on the city council for many years. If appointed, Mrs. Palm would make history as the first female patrician. (Ed note: Is there a feminine equivalent of patrician? Will someone look this up pls. Do not print this note; we looked ridiculous last time this happened.)

LORD DOWNEY (_76_)

Head of the Assassin's Guild, educated alongside Lord Vetinari. Downey has survived a record twenty-seven years in the 3rd most dangerous position of leadership in the city (2nd being that of arch-chancellor of Unseen University and 1st that of patrician; coincidentally the most recent incumbents of all three such traditionally precarious posts have done so for record spans. This speaks volumes for the stability Vetinari's rule brought to the city.). Continued on next page.

 

***

 

Vimes turned the page and read on. He groaned. He groaned some more. He turned another page and somehow managed to tap into further reserves of groan that should really have been saved for emergencies.

"I didn't think it was quite that bad, sir," said Carrot, on the other side of the desk.

"No, at least there's no cartoon," admitted Vimes. "Probably decided that would be in bad taste."

"Yes, sir."

"How'd they get this out so _fast_, anyway?"

"They must have guessed what was going on. It wouldn't have been hard to put everything together and get a start on the edition early. They are very good at being nosy, sir."

"That's even worse taste than having a cartoon! You can't go starting on someone's obituary before you're sure they're dead!"

"Actually, sir, I believe they have quite a few already outlined for some prominent citizens. Well, most of the information isn't going to change and they only need to add the, er, the last minute... um… details…" Carrot trailed off, uncharacteristically uncomfortable under his commander's stare.

"Really. Got one ready to go for me, I suppose? After all, at 74 how much longer can I last?"

"I really couldn't say, sir."

"You're on their list, did you see?"

"Yes, sir. Can't think why."

No, I'm sure you can't, thought Vimes. "The troublesome Mr. Gerber too. Hah, so much for impartiality, looks like de Worde isn't keen on him either."

"A lot of people are. He does have significant support."

Vimes put the paper down on his desk and leaned back. It had been a hellish couple of hours and they didn't have very much to show for it. It was probably going to get worse. He should probably make the most of these few minutes relative peace…

"Idiots do love to follow other idiots. Think he's got a chance of muscling his way into the patricianship?"

"Hard to say, sir. Humans still make up half the population of the city, but it's so integrated with the non-human half now that I'm not sure how well either group would cope with the others sudden disappearance. Think of how trade would suffer on both sides if we no longer had ties with the dwarfs! But there's always been resentment of the other races taking jobs and cornering trade markets, so it's possible a lot of people wouldn't see it that way. The movement makes a little more sense back in Uberwald where it was born, humans have always been an oppressed society under the vampire and werewolf feudal lords."

"Carrot, you think of yourself as a dwarf. Your children are werewolves, to a greater or lesser degree. Your wife is _from _an oppressive werewolf feudal family. How can you possibly think it makes sense _anywhere_?"

"I don't necessarily agree with them, sir, but look at it from their point of view. Most of the vampires and werewolves treat them as cattle or prey and the rest of the time they just don't matter and it's been like that for centuries. Things are certainly better than they were, what with the league of temperance, but it's been more of a success here on the plains where the vampires have never been in charge. Up in Uberwald they don't see any reason to change. And, well, there's not really anyone encouraging the werewolves to change. There are some others like Angua, but, again, they tend to be the ones who've left Uberwald and they're rare. In most cases the dwarfs are happy to trade but don't really care about surface politics and the rest of the Uberwald races barely even think about humans. The humans want equality at the very least and are quite right to, but there are some, like Mr. Gerber, who think they should be on top."

"But no-one's doing any oppressing around here! Well… Not much anyway, and all races are pretty equally oppressed," said Vimes. "And you can bet if this idiot gets into power he won't stop at non-humans. I'm sure most of us aren't the right kind of humans."

"You're probably right, sir."

Vimes sighed and fingered the sheet of closely written notes from Doctor Lawn. He'd examined everything and done every test that he could think of. There _were_ a few more complex ones he could do if Vimes was prepared to wait a few days for the results, but he doubted they'd make much of a difference. In the mean time, he regretted to disappoint, but it appeared that his original appraisal had been bang on the money. Death by natural causes. It was something of an anti-climax, and Sam Vimes had been looking forward to something he could get really angry about. Now he just felt deflated, like a balloon that had been left for a week to slowly leak air. He handed the report to Carrot.

"Pass that on to Miss Fletchley**(a)**, would you? Get her to put something together for the papers. Facts only and make it clear that the investigation is considered closed. I'm sure they'll want _something _from us for the evening edition."

"Certainly, sir."

Miss Fletchley was the Watch's press officer. It had become clear that there needed to be someone around who could keep their temper while talking to aggravatingly nosy journalists and give them something they could print other than "'Ere, you can't write that down. Can 'e write that down sarge? 'E's writin' it down sarge! Stop 'im sarge!". Regular watchmen simply didn't have the time or the patience, or even the brain in many cases. So Miss Fletchley had been hired. Of course, nothing could stop a truly _determined_ journalist from ambushing watchmen and asking difficult questions**(b)**...

"And tell the lads not to talk to the press," Vimes added. "We don't have anything more to say on the matter and we are not a part of the decision on a new patrician. The last thing we need is the Times telling everyone we've given our support to some bugger we haven't. We are completely neutral. We're a government department… whoever the government turns out to be."

 

_ **   
**_

* * *

_**  
(a)** _ _ Miss Fletchley did not have any Maccalariat blood, but it was generally felt that the first family of bureaucracy had really missed out. Most of the watchmen would rather try to nick a pen from the post office than face Miss Fletchley's wrath over a misplaced comma._

_ **(b)** _ _ Starting with "What's your name?", "How old are you?" and getting progressively harder from there.   
_

* * *

_  
_

 

It was a darkened room, lit by a single lamp. It usually is. Hooded cloaks are often involved too, or velvet cushioned high-backed chairs, lots of candles and thick plush curtains. Using all of them together was probably overkill, but that had not stopped _these_ conspirators.

But when Conspirator A burst into the office of Conspirator B waving the special edition of the Times, there wasn't time to set everything up. It was rather a shame, the cloaks had been a real bargain at bulk prices and the chairs were surprisingly comfy for those late night plotting meetings.

"I said I was not to be disturbed this morning. And certainly not by you, I told you never to come here."

"Vetinari's dead!" hissed the burster and slapped the paper down on the desk. The burstee stared at it for a moment before delicately picking it up and skimming the front page.

"I thought we had agreed on _next_ week," he said after digesting the headlines. "_Next_ week. That means the week proceeding after this one ends."

"I know that, I know that! It wasn't us!"

The man at the desk gave the other a long, cold look. "Do you mean to tell me that some _other_ group of anti-Vetinari conspirators got in first?"

"I don't know… But look, it says the watch are investigating the possibility of assassination."

"So? If it wasn't you, then we have nothing to worry about."

"But we've been making… arrangements…Delicate ones, that, should they come to light, might look somewhat… suspicious."

"Ah. I see what you mean."

"It'd be a problem."

"Quite. Damn, whoever did this has created quite a problem for us. But perhaps… Perhaps we can make this work."

The other visibly sagged with relief. That meant he _might_ not get the blame. "What shall we do?" he asked.

"We'll hold a meeting this evening to discuss the issue. In the meantime, I want you to find out exactly what the watch knows. They don't tell the papers everything if they can help it and we _must_ know if they suspect us in the slightest. And don't come here during the day ever again!"


End file.
